Of all the affiliations I have been part of across the years and various careers, none compares to the bond of collegiality I have enjoyed among my standup comedy brothers and sisters.

I spent 20 years of my life in nightclubs in New York City and as a nationally touring comic. The friendship and connections are tight as can be among us because of the strange experiences we share. Alternately we are puffed up with roaring laughter and applause, and then, turning on a dime at the very next show, facing naked hostility from late night audiences fueled on booze, drugs and projected anger.

No matter how different our styles were, from the cerebral to the zany, we laughed at each other's carefully honed material. But mostly it was in appreciation of the predicament faced by being one person in front of a few, or several hundred strangers, all skeptical of your competence as funny until proven, right then and there. It's the reason I relish my continuing appearances on the "Bob & Tom Show," where I keep my connections with my comedian friends.

Over the years the comedy community has been sobered by the loss of one among us. Often it's to illness or accident, but sometimes by depression. Except for comics, for instance, not many knew Richard Jeni well, a brilliant comedian who took his life a decade ago. And now, Robin Williams, who everyone knew.

The tributes to him are totally earned. He was a mensch, compassionate and generous. He was unassuming and gentle with his fame. But mostly he is remembered for his brilliance onstage. His guest sets on hundreds of nights during the 1980s when we were all hanging out and performing at The Comic Strip, Catch A Rising Star, the Improvisation or other comedy venues are legendary. And by contrast to the drop in sets by Rodney Dangerfield, Eddie Murphy or Jerry Seinfeld after they too achieved fame, Robin was a tornado of joy on stage.

When introducing him to a surprised audience at the clubs, I could barely get through his introduction (wasn't much really needed) and the audience stood up and roared at his presence. He was simply great as a performer and person. But, oh dear.

Robin's high energy, mania if you will, was authentic. And for all stunned by the news that his death was the tragic consequence of a profound depression, perhaps we need to pause.

Many of you reading this are very familiar with depression – for yourself and members of your family. The mask of normalcy – even of the exuberant kind like Robin – has little bearing on the interior suffering of this dreaded brain disease, named the No. 1 global health problem by the World Health Organization.

My outer presentation you see in casual encounters is a small, often well-guarded glimpse into my own inner world. In our time, characterized by mostly passing, transitory relationships, few of us know what is going on with each other behind the curtain. This is especially true of celebrities, whose entire identity is known only through the visage of a carefully guarded public presentation.

So think about how you knew Robin Williams. And think about how you know so many of those right around you. A stroll through the mall or Mosey Down Main Street has you pass dozens, perhaps hundreds, who are silently coping with this tragic brain wiring anomaly we call depression.

I am proud to serve on the board of the local Mental Health America and know the heartfelt concern for the silent killer that is depression. And I am honored to serve as a chaplain for the area police departments and know firsthand what the cops and other first responders know well – that suicide is far more common in our own community than many realize.

In memory of the joy you felt watching Robin's hilarious brilliance and moving character depictions, I urge you to tune in to this matter for yourself, your family, friends and your community. The flip side of Robin's joy was an unbearable pain. How terribly, terribly sad. Let's get engaged in this issue. Lives are at stake.

Miller, a comedian, therapist and leader at University Church, lives in Lafayette.